Berlin Alexanderplatz: The Story of Franz Biberkopf (11 page)

Georg Dreske declined with determination, that’s too silly for me, I’m not going to stand around a saloon for such a lot of bunk. “Nope, cut it out, I’ll be going. Tell it to little Richard. Here, Richard.” “He’s trying to act big in front of me, the Baron. He only goes with Barons now. I’m surprised he still hangs around with us in the cafe, this gentleman.” Clear eyes bore into Dreske’s unsteady eyes: “Well, that’s what I mean, that’s it exactly, Georgie, when we were stationed at Arras after’ 18, Field Artillery, or Infantry or the Signal Corps or the Labor Battalion or whatever you call it. And when peace came afterwards, you know?” Now I getcha, wait a minute, m’boy, you shouldn’t touch on that subject, now should you? “Well, now, I’m just going to empty my mug, and you, Franz, old kid, you might look that up in your papers, if you happen to have any-I mean look up where you were later on, where you hung around or didn’t hang around, also where you stood or where you sat, yes, sir. A peddler ought always to have his papers about him.” Well, did you get me that time, the bull-pen, remember that. Calm eyes into Dreske’s cunning ones: “Four years after ‘18 I was in Berlin. The whole war didn’t last any longer than that, now did it? I was going around and you were going around, Richard here was still at his mother’s apron-strings. Well, did we notice anything here like Arras, or did you maybe? We had inflation, paper bills, millions and billions of them, no meat, no butter, worse than before, we sawall that, and you too, Georgie, and where Arras was, you can just figure that out on your own fingers. There was nothing there, was there? All we did was to bum around and swipe the farmers’ potatoes.”

Revolution? Unscrew the flag-staff, wrap the bunting in the oil covers, and put the thing in the clothes-chest. Let the old lady bring you your house-slippers and untie your fiery red necktie. You always make revolutions with your mugs, your republic-nothing but an industrial accident.

Dreske thinks to himself: He’s going to turn out to be a dangerous fellow. Richard Werner, that young duffer, opens his mouth again: “Maybe you’d like it better. Franz, if we’d started a new war, maybe you’d like to shove it on our backs. Merrily we’ll conquer France! But you’ll tear a big hole in your pants with that.” Franz is thinking: What a monkey, regular ape, nigger heaven. All he knows about war is through the movies, a whack on his head and down with him.

The proprietor dries his hands on his blue apron. A green prospectus lies in front of the polished glasses, he pants heavily as he reads: Hand Assorted Come-Back Roast Coffee is unrivaled, People’s Coffee (second quality and roast coffee); Pure Unground Bean Coffee, 2,29; Santos, guaranteed pure; first-class Santos Household Mixture, strong and economical; Van Campina’s Strong Mixture, pure flavored; Mexico Mixture, exquisite, best value in Plantation coffee, 3,75; assortment of merchandise by railroad, 36 pounds minimum, A bee, a wasp, a bumblebee circles up there on the ceiling near the stove-pipe, in winter a perfect miracle of nature, Its tribal companions, companions of its own species, sentiment, and gender are dead and gone or else not yet born; this is the Ice Age which the lonely bumblebee endures without knowing how it came about or why this particular bee, But that sunlight which spreads silently over the table in front and on the floor, divided into two masses of light by the sign: L6wenbriiu Patzenhofer, is age-old and makes all else seem perishable and unimportant, when you see it. It comes from over
x
miles away, it shot past the star
y,
the sun has been shining for millions of years, since long before Nebuchadnezzar, before Adam and Eve, before the ichthyosaurus, and now it shines into the little beer-shop through the window-pane, divided into two masses by a tin sign: Löwenbräu Patzenhofer, spreads out over the table and on the floor, imperceptibly gaining ground, It spreads over them, and they know it. It is winged, light, over-light, light-light, from heaven high I come to you.

Two big grown-up animals in clothes, two human beings, two men, Franz Biberkopf and Georg Dreske, a newsvender and a locked-out polisher, however, stand at the bar, hold themselves perpendicular on their pants-covered lower extremities, lean on the wood with their arms stuck in thick tubes of overcoats, Each of them thinks, observes, and feels, each something different.

“Then you might as well know this and remember it, there never was any Arras, Georgie, we simply didn’t do anything, might as well confess, not us, Neither you or the ones who were there, There wasn’t any discipline, wasn’t anybody in command, always one against the other. I beat it out of the trenches and you, too, and Öse, too. Well, and here at home, when it started, who was it skidooed? The whole lot of ‘em, Wasn’t anybody to stick around, you saw that, didn’t you, a handful, maybe, a thousand. You can have ‘em,” So that’s his game and him such a bonehead, and he let ‘em fool him. “Because they betrayed us, the big guys, in ‘18 and ‘19, Franz, and they killed Rosa and Karl Liebknecht too. How can people stick together that way and do anything? Take a look at Russia, Lenin, there they stick together, like putty. But just wait and see.” Blood must bubble, blood must bubble, in muggy currents thick. “I don’t care. The world’s going to the dogs and you, too, while you wait. I won’t bother about bunk like that. Here’s my proof: they couldn’t accomplish anything and that’s enough for me. Not the slightest thing was done, like on that Hartmannsweilerkopf which a fellow is always preaching to me about, the veteran, he was up there, you don’t know him, well, not a thing. And so-”

Here Franz gets up, takes his band from the table, stuffs it into his overcoat, waves back and forth horizontally with his left arm, slowly walking back to his table: “And then I say what I always said, you understand, Krause, you might remember this, too, Richard: there ain’t nothing can come out of that business of yours. Not that way. Don’t know if there’s anything going to come out of the fellows with this band here. And I didn’t say it either, but it’s something else. Peace on earth, as they say, that’s all right, and whoever wants to work, let him work and we’re too good for that bunk.”

And he sits on the window-sill and wipes his cheek, squints into the bright room and plucks a hair from his ear. The car grinds around the corner, No. 9, Ostring, Hermannplatz, Wildenbruchplatz, Treptow Depot, Warschauer Brlicke, Baltenplatz, Kniprodestrasse, Schbnhauser Allee, Stettiner BahnhoL Hedwigkirche, Hallesches Tor, Hermannplatz. The proprietor leans on the metal beer-tap, sucks and lolls his tongue over the new filling in his lower jaw, tastes like a drug-store, little Emilie has got to go to the country again this summer or to Zinnowitz with the vacation colony, the child’s ailing again, his eyes fall on the green prospectus, it’s lying crooked, he straightens it out, a bit anxious about it, can’t see anything lie around crooked. Marinated bismarck herring with first-class sauce, delicious boneless meats, rollmops in extra fine marinade sauce, delicious with pickle inside, herring in jelly, large chunks, delicious fish, roast herring.

Words, resounding waves, noise-waves, full of content, rock to and fro through the room, from 1he throat of Dreske, the stutterer, who smiles at the floor: “Well, Franz, good luck to you, as the sky-pilot says, on your new path of life. When we march out to Karl and Rosa in Friedrichsfelde next January, you’re not going to be with us then, are you?” Let him stutter away, I’ll sell my papers.

When they are alone, the proprietor gives Franz a smile. The latter stretches his legs comfortably under the table: “Why are they beating it, Henschke, that gang? On account of my arm-band? I suppose they’re going to get reinforcements.” That fellow won’t let up. Some of these days they’re going to kick him out of here. Blood must bubble, blood must bubble, in currents muggy and thick.

The proprietor tastes his filling, I’ve got to push the goldfinch nearer the window, a wee little animal like that needs a little light. Franz helps him, drives a nail into the wall behind the bar, the proprietor carries the bird-cage with the fluttering little animal from the other wall: “It’s certainly dark today. The houses are too high.” Franz stands on the chair, hangs the cage up, steps down, whistles, raises his index finger and whispers again: “I hope nobody’ll come near it now. It’ll get used to it. It’s a goldfinch, a she.” Both are silent, nod to each other, look up and smile.

Franz is a Man of Form, he knows what he owes to himself

In the evening, sure enough, Franz is kicked out of Henschke’s. He comes tripping along at nine, takes a look at the bird, it’s got its head under its wings already and is sitting on the perch in the corner, funny, why is it a tiny animal like that doesn’t fall off when it sleeps? Franz whispers to the proprietor: “What do ye say to that, the little animal sleeps right through all this racket, what do ye say to that, it’s great, ain’t it, it sure must be tired, wonder if all this smoke is good for it, for small lungs like that?” “It’s never known anything else at my place, there’s always smoke here, in the cafe, you know; at that, it’s quite thin today.”

Then Franz sits down: “Well, I’m not going to smoke today, it may get too thick otherwise, and we’ll open the window a bit afterwards, there won’t be any draft.” Georg Dreske, young Richard, and three others sit at a separate table opposite. Two of them Franz does not know. There is nobody else in the room. When Franz came in, there was a big row going on and a lot of loud talking and swearing. As soon as he opens the door, they lower their voices, the two new ones look frequently in Franz’s direction, bend over the table, then lean back impudently in their scats and drink each other’s health. When lovely eyes begin to wink, when full glasses gleam and clink, there comes once more, once more, the call to drink. Henschke, the bald-headed proprietor, busies himself with the tap and the dish-washing; contrary to his custom he does not leave the place but manages to keep bustling and fussing around.

Then all of a sudden the conversation at the next table grows very loud, one of the newcomers leads in the chorus. He wants to sing, it’s too quiet for him here, and there’s no piano-player here, either; Henschke calls over to him: “Why should I get one, my business wouldn’t pay for it.” Franz knows what they want to sing, either the “Internationale” or “Brother, to light and liberty,” unless they’ve got something new. There they go. They’re singing the Internationale.

Franz chews, thinks to himself; they mean me. All right with me, if only they wouldn’t smoke so much. When they sing, they don’t smoke, it’s bad for the little bird. That old Georg Dreske should be Sitting with such young oafs, and don’t even come over to join him, well, he never would have thought that possible. The old fool, married at that, an honest old fool, sitting with those kids and listening to them cackling away. One of the newcomers calls over to him: “Well, comrade, did you like the song?” “Me, fine, you got good voices.” “Why don’t you join in?” ‘‘I’d rather eat. When I get through eating, I’ll sing with you, or else sing something myself.” “All right.”

They go on talking with each other, Franz eats and drinks at his ease, thinks of Lina, and that the little bird don’t plump down while it’s asleep, and looks across the room, who is that fellow smoking his pipe? Business was good today, but it was cold. There are always a couple of ‘em over there watching him eat. Probably afraid I’m going to swallow the wrong way. Once there was a fellow ate a sausage sandwich and when it reached his stomach, it thought the thing over and came back up in his throat and said: you forgot the mustard; and then it went down the proper way. That’s what a real sandwich of respectable parents does. And the moment Franz has finished and pours his beer down, rightaway that fellow calls across to him: “Well, how about it, comrade, are you going to sing us something now?” Maybe they’re organizing a singing club over there, we might join ‘em; if they sing they won’t smoke. But I’m not in a hurry, when I promise anything, I keep my word. And he meditates, wiping his nose; it drips, when you get into a warm room, no use pulling it; he thinks, wonder where Lina’s keeping herself, and I might as well treat myself to a coupla wienies, but I’m getting a bit stout, what’ll I sing for ‘em, they don’t understand nothing about life, anyway, but a promise is a promise. And suddenly through his head there strays a phrase, a line, a poem he had learned in prison, they often recited it, it went from cell to cell. He remains under the spell of the moment, his head is warm and flushed from the heat, it Sinks on his chest, he grows serious and thoughtful. With his hand on his mug, he says: “I know a poem, from prison, it’s by a prisoner, his name was, wait a minute, what was his name, Dohms, that’s it.”

Right. Now it’s out, but it was a fine poem. He sits alone at his table. Henschke, from behind his sink, listens along with the others, nobody comes in, the tile stove crackles. Franz, his head resting on his hand, recites a poem which Dohms composed, and he sees the cell, the courtyard, he can stand it now, wonder what young fellows are there now: he himself is walking in the prison courtyard, that’s more than these guys know, what do they know about life, anyway?

He says: “If on this earth you want to be, a creature, male and full of glee, be careful and weigh everything, before you let the midwife fling you towards the daylight, there to grow: Earth is a nest of grief and woe. Believe the poet of these verses, who often pines and often curses, while chewing on this iron crust-quotation pinched from Goethe’s Faust: Man only relishes life’s glow, in general, as an embryo! ... There is the good old father State, he rags and irks you soon and late. He pricks and pesters you-you’re bled-with laws and codes: ‘Prohibited!’ His first commandment: Man, shell out. His second: Hold your dirty snout. And thus you live in adumbration, your state is that of offuscation. And if you seek to drown your queer, rough anger at some pub with beer, or with some wine, respectively, a headache promptly trails the spree. Meanwhile the years knock at the gate, the moths erode the hair, elate. Suspiciously the rafters creak, the limbs grow flabby, blighted, weak: gray matter sours in the brain, and thinner grows the good old strain. In short, you see fall coming nigh, you put the spoon down and you die. And now I ask you, friend, a-quiver: just what is man, what is life’s river? Did not our great poet Schiller confess: ‘It’s not the highest men possess.’ But I say: it’s a chicken-ladder at best, up and down and all the rest.”